planets are drifting as you lay with your eyes closed, sifting through the ground where the corn grows, levitating from the inside-out. your skin is shaking. you're moving your mouth, but no words come out. no words come out. your pores are then leaking the taste of a corn field where a jet plane collides with my windshield. every time i think of you, i've only wanted to lay next to you with no words allowed. no words allowed. when we're buried underground, meet me in the dead peoples' lounge. my skeleton will still want to be with your skeleton bones, all peaceful and pefect. we won't make a sound. we won't make a sound.

60 years later and so far from iowa, the boy in the field never dreamed that some day i would, after all these years and these miles, fall in love with his grandchild. i fell in love with his child. i fell in love with you, child.